


The Wrong Choice

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: Sometimes the smallest things have the biggest impact of all. Challenge response. Complete.





	The Wrong Choice

**The Wrong Choice**

* * *

Tonight was supposed to be relaxing and enjoyable, a chance to sit back and chat with old friends, catching up on the latest news and gossip whilst eating good food and drinking – likely – more than a little good wine. They've known each other for the better part of thirty-five years, after all, the group of four women clustered around the small corner table in the quiet, outwardly nondescript but really quite delightful restaurant they discovered rather accidentally several years ago and have subsequently been meeting up at every few months or so ever since.

Tonight, though... Tonight Grace is not relaxed or enjoying herself, not as much as she would like to be. Not when she has been looking forward to this evening all week. No, she's partaking in the conversation, when it's directed at her, but she's not leading it, or any part of it, and that's being noticed. Liz, to her right, is casting the occasional furtive glance her way, as if trying to surreptitiously read what might be causing her to be so quiet. Even Rose, who is not normally known for picking up on undercurrents or tensions, is eyeing her with suspicion. It's Laura, sitting opposite, though, who finally gives up and characteristically asks a blunt, "All right, Grace, what has he done this time?"

She flinches, can't help it. Stares down at her half-eaten plate of food for long moments while the internal battle pulls her in a multitude of directions. For a moment, tears threaten, but she successfully pushes them back, forces herself to focus on the anger. Anger, she knows, is so much safer. So much easier to deal with. Particularly when it comes to Peter Boyd.

A slow, deliberate sip of wine allows her time to gather her thoughts. How, she wonders, berating herself with more than just a little annoyance, has she let herself get into such a state?

"It's nothing," she says at last. "Just another petty argument. One that got a little too... heated."

"You mean personal," retorts Laura, who has always cut straight to the core of things.

"And aggressive," offers Liz, whose eyes are gentle and kind, who has actually met the man in question, and who has been a very, very good friend over the years.

"Why do you do it to yourself, Grace?" asks Rose, shaking her head in exasperation. "One minute it's all swimming along wonderfully and it's the most interesting job you've ever had, the next he has another tantrum and you're as miserable as sin. Repeat an infinitum. Just give it up and do something else. None of us need that sort of stress in our lives anymore, and certainly not you!"

They only want the best for her, but even so, it's difficult to avoid biting back or giving a response she knows she'll hate herself for, or worse, that will lead to an argument, no matter how well intentioned they all are. 

_What is wrong with me?_ she wonders. _What am I turning into?_

It takes longer than she would like, but eventually she finds some composure. "I love my job," she finally shrugs. "And he's been fine for ages. I don't know what caused... whatever it was... that happened today. I'm sure he'll be fine on Monday – he probably just got up on the wrong side of the bed or something." Injecting a false note of cheer into her voice, she looks at Rose and smiles. "Anyway, you were about to tell us about Anna's exploits in Romania..."

As a distraction tactic, it works, and for the rest of the meal she concentrates on being a part of the conversation, on trying to ignore the mixture of raw, stinging pain and outraged fury. On trying to be the serene, happy version of Grace they all expect her to be. She manages it, too, until nearly the very end.

"Talk to me," urges Liz, as Rose and Laura retreat to the loos at the rear of the restaurant. "You've been almost vacant for the entire evening and you're worrying me. What's bothering you?" She should have known, thinks Grace, ruefully. The moment they were alone, of course Liz would want to know what actually happened, and what she might do to help. It's just the way she is, and the evening's time is running out on them.

Sighing, Grace leans back into her chair. "I don't know what to say," she admits. "I thought we were past all the bitterness and nastiness – he's been so good to me for months, so accommodating of my limitations..."

"What was different today?" Again, kind eyes and a gentle expression. Liz has always had an uncanny ability to make Grace want to unburden her soul, but not tonight. Tonight she will not share the particularly deep, personal poison so callously thrown at her that is burrowing deeper and deeper into her soul, upsetting her more and more by the hour.

"I really don't know. It's been a long week..." It's the oldest excuse in the book, and though it is actually true, she still feels guilty using it. "I think I'm overtired and just need to go home to bed. I've only just started back at full time hours, after all, and we've finished late every day for the last fortnight."

"Grace..." That same gentle, kind tone. "That's not an answer, and you know it."

For a moment, a lump forms at the base of her throat, and all she can do is stare into the remnants of the deep red liquid in her glass, willing the strong emotion away with everything she has left in her. "I know," she finally agrees. "But I really don't want to talk about it. Not this time. I just want to go home, take a long, hot bath and go to bed. I really am exhausted."

"Are you trying to do too much too soon?"

The friendly concern is nice, but after months of people trying to be sympathetic and treading carefully around her, Grace has just had enough. Simply to try and ease herself out of the conversation, she shrugs. "Maybe, but it had to happen sooner or later. I couldn't stay on sick leave indefinitely, and I had a pretty good process of easing myself back into it."

"Even so, though," begins Liz, but Grace shakes her head.

Interrupts quietly with, "No, it's okay. Next week should be much calmer. You know how these cases go – it's all fits and starts of momentum, and then periods of dull inertia and endless paperwork. There shouldn't be much happening for the next few days or so."

Doubtful eyebrows raise, but with the other two returning there’s little time for more than a dubious, "Well, if you say so..."

Guilt flaring hotly and miserably inside her at the deliberate evasiveness she's directed at the woman who has never been anything less than wonderfully generous in her friendship towards her, Grace nods, trying valiantly to push it all down inside herself and keep up the steady front they all expect from her in place.

* * *

Outside it is dark, bitingly cold and, just to add insult to injury, raining heavily. Hitching her bag further up onto her shoulder, and setting her head forward against the relentlessly soggy onslaught, Grace walks determinedly in the direction of the nearest tube station, her anger returning full force as the comfort of the restaurant fades.

Damn the blasted man and his ability to not only reduce her to such an emotional wreck, but also to ruin an evening she's been looking forward to for weeks. Even her friends noticed, for god’s sake. Furious, she quickens her pace, not seeing the uneven paving stones ahead of her in her haste to keep moving. Her shoe, a pretty brown suede that's not at all suited to the weather, catches on the raised edge of stone and her increased momentum throws her forwards faster than she can right herself as gravity and Isaac Newton conspire against her. Down she crashes, skinning the heels of both palms as she automatically throws her arms out to catch herself. Great, she thinks, just great, as she lands in a huge puddle, her handbag clouting her on the head as it tumbles past and lands just out of range of the pool of water. It's a small mercy, given the precious contents inside, but as she staggers to her feet and lurches forward to scoop it up by the handles, it doesn't feel so.

Tears of pain and frustration bite as she leans against a nearby wall, trying to catch her breath and take stock of the state she's in.

Those words...

The hot saltiness on her cheeks blends with the icy rivulets of rain lashing down around her, running freely over her hair and skin, and it's an odd, indescribable sensation where they mix.

Forget it, she orders herself fiercely, the sound of Boyd's anger echoing inside her skull. Don't dwell on it. It's over and done with. Concentrate on now.

From the knees down her legs are utterly drenched, her trousers sticking to her skin and running with water. Her shoes are full and squelching unpleasantly, her socks oozing inside them. Her hands are burning, and both wrists are throbbing unpleasantly. Her coat, already soaked from the rain, is filthy all down the front, and the lower sleeves are dripping.

Great.

Testing the ankle that she caught on the slab, Grace clenches her teeth at the dull, grinding pain and starts to walk again. It's bearable. Just. Five minutes and she'll be at the station, then she can sit in shivering misery until the train arrives in Finchley.

Why does he always do this to her? One minute they're getting along like the proverbial house on fire and she starts to really think that... And then the next he brings her crashing back down so hard that she's honestly starting to believe that one of these days she will shatter from the impact of it all.

It's her own fault, of course, for letting herself believe that maybe...

Yanking herself out of that train of thought she concentrates fiercely on her steps, biting her lower lip as the twisted ankle snarls and complains.

A hot bath. A soon as she gets home she's going to strip off and run herself a deep, hot bath. And she's going to soak in it for as long as she damn well pleases. 

To hell with him and his deliberate nasty streak.

A large, dark vehicle pulls up alongside the kerb a few feet ahead of her. Grace doesn't pay any attention, just keeps walking. It's raining so hard now that she can barely see where she's going as it is; taking her eyes off the pavement would simply be asking for trouble.

The imperious sound of a horn jolts her out of her unhappy musings, though, and the dark thoughts about just how guilty she feels over the dinner she's just largely not enjoyed. Jumping, and automatically gripping the strap of her bag tighter against her shoulder, she looks up, wary.

The car beside her rolls forward a couple of feet, drawing level as the window eases down to reveal the driver. It's the very last person Grace wants to see right now. Possibly ever again.

"Get in the car, Grace," Boyd instructs. "I'll drop you home."

She could ignore him. Could walk on without saying a word, but that would surely cost her the moral high ground. Shaking her head, well aware her hair is stuck entirely flat to her skull by the force of the downpour, she tells him no and continues walking.

Like hell she's going to get into his warm, comfortable vehicle and let him drive her straight to her house. The glare of red light reflects against a road sign just ahead, and before he actually pulls level with her again, she knows he's reversing to keep up with her.

"For Christ’s sake, Grace, it was just a petty argument," he snaps. "Get in the car before you catch your death. It's not negotiable."

The rage that had abated into desolate wretchedness and deep sadness suddenly flares again, its intensity taking Grace quite by surprise as she rounds to face him, planting herself squarely. There is a choice here, of course, but only in theory. In reality... well, no, there just isn't. Not now, not tonight.

"That's where you're wrong, Boyd," she replies quietly, the anguish of his earlier attack still bitingly fresh. There’s steel in her tone, a calm, quietly angry defiance she’s positive he’s simply entirely unaccustomed to hearing. "I'm not one of your junior officers and I haven't got a warrant card – I don't have to follow your orders."

She glares at him, summoning every last shred of willpower left inside her, because she's dammed if she's going to give in and do as he wants. The annoyance and antagonism in his eyes gives way to exhaustion, and guilt. His shoulders sag slightly, and he leans further back into his seat as his hands slide down the wheel.

"I'm sorry."

He means it, too, she can tell. But that doesn't make those hurtful, aggressive words any easier to bear. Heat of the moment it may have been, but he couldn't have chosen a more personal, vicious attack if he'd tried. And she could see it in his face afterwards for a one fleeting second before he'd resumed shouting at her, profanities littering the air as his temper exploded into the confines of their concrete prison, no doubt driven by anger at his lack of self-control.

She stares at him, can't find it in herself to be anything but brutally honest with him. "I don't want to talk to you, Boyd."

"Grace..."

She shakes her head. Feels old, weary. "No. I'm not getting in the car, and I'm not talking it over with you. I'm too angry and too upset right now. I'm going home. Alone."

Turning away from him, she walks on, determined. His words echo in her ears yet again, over and over, spurring her on, their raw, antagonistic nature gnawing at the gaping wound he ripped open in her chest earlier.

It hurts so much. So much more than she ever thought would be possible.

Five minutes later she walks though the entrance, feels her nostrils fill with the familiar scent of the underground. Swipes her Oyster card and heads for the familiar bank of escalators and tunnels. She's so wet that a trail of water drips continuously in her wake, obscuring her footprints. It's cold in the tunnels, but she keeps walking, hurries even, in the hope that she can get on the train quicker, get home faster, plunge into that hot, soapy bath and soak until all her muscles relax and warmth returns to her numb, frozen fingers and toes.

A small, taunting voice in the back of her head decides in that moment to rear its head. She could be sitting in the depths of a comfortable, heated seat with warm air gently thawing her out, but no, instead she's stubbornly sticking to her principles and her need to get away from him. The damaged, wounded bad boy who is still so lovable and engaging when he wants to be. Who quietly stole her heart when she didn't want him to.

It was a stupid choice, but the right one, Grace determinedly tells herself, ignoring that voice.

There's no train when she reaches the platform, just a three minute warning and a small handful of people scattered along the length of chilly concrete. She heads a few feet down the walkway, too tired to enjoy the mosaics and the colourful posters as she usually does. Too cold and too miserable to pay attention to more than where her feet are falling.

Tonight is not her night, and now she really is beginning to wonder if it’s time she took Laura and Rose's advice and found herself another job. She could get into lecturing full time, she's sure. She already guests regularly at a couple of the universities, so surely one would take her on. Even part time would be all right; she could research, relax, spend more time with her family and friends. Be more sociable. Be happier.

But could she?

Would she be happy, away from the basement and the concrete and the chase? Away from the team and the cases and the adrenalin. Away from him.

It's always him. Him and the obliviousness that hurts even more than the vicious words, than the arguments, than the kindness and sweet smiles when things are good. Than the loyalty of a friend who will only ever be her friend.

Tonight is not her night.

The ragged young man leaning against the wall and listening to music she can hear even though his tiny headphones are jammed firmly into his ears suddenly leaps from his perch, swearing at her in a language she can't place, can't follow. It's all so quick and alien, so out of the blue that she has no time to process any of it. He's screaming at her, and the few people milling about waiting for the next train shrink back in horror, gasps and shouts escaping them as the gleam of sharp steal abruptly appears from the young man’s waistband, the thick carving knife brutal in its suggestive power.

He doesn't demand anything from her, only advances. Backing her towards the edge of the platform and the steep drop onto the tracks. There's only a minute or less until the next train now, and if she falls...

Terrified, Grace swallows, her throat suddenly thick and constricted. This has come out of nowhere, and she can feel the panic rising. She's already over the line and into the danger zone; another step, perhaps two, and if the trains don't get her then surely the electrified third rail will.

"Choose," shrieks the man, his wide, dark eyes dancing here, there and everywhere. They seem unable to focus on one thing for more than a fraction of a second, matching his movements, which are erratic and short, uncontrolled. His arms swing in nonsensical gestures, the blade seeming to glitter in the air.

"Choose, choose, choose." His words are heavily accented, and he launches into a diatribe that she can neither follow, nor understand. Distantly she can hear the familiar rattle of the train in the tunnel as the part of her brain still rationally analysing tells her that this man, whoever he is, is in the grip of a true mental health crisis; the rest of her is paralysed with terror as that knife swings ever closer, the tip catching her cheek and leaving a searing track in its wake.

Grace yelps, and stumbles backwards. Her sore, twisted ankle protests, giving way beneath her weight, and as the man continues to scream, the word choose appearing over and over as the only thing she can possibly understand, she knows that she made her choice earlier, out on the street.

It was the right choice at the time, but the wrong choice overall. And as she falls backwards, unable to save herself, she thinks of a different man. One who, despite everything, she wishes she could spend just a little more time with. One she wishes she had told the truth to a long time ago. One that she loves, adores, despises.

Sometimes decisions, choices are hard, sometimes their effects take years or last forever. And sometimes the blink of an eye, just a single moment in time, is all it takes.

And then sometimes the smallest things have the biggest impact of all.


End file.
